


Something Sweeter

by treasuredleisure



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: 60's setting, Introspection, M/M, POV First Person, X-Men First Class Kink Meme, photographer!Erik, this will not make you cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treasuredleisure/pseuds/treasuredleisure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik had always thought that when he'd fall in love, he'd do it wisely.</p><p>But when it happens, it happens just as unwisely as he'd feared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Sweeter

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/9701.html?thread=21806821#t21806821/) prompt. Fair amount of changes made.

_22nd June, 1962. Paris, France_  
  
Here I sit, thinking about fifty things at once. My mind won't slow down now, not after the week I've had. I once sat at my desk and thought about work, about mother, about the mundane, ordinary things that comprised my underwhelming life.   
  
I'd always thought that if I fell in love I'd do it wisely, because my mind would always overrule my heart, and my heart didn't have anything spectacular to offer anyway.   
  
It would be so thoroughly premeditated that I'd even know how many children we'd have, with just a single glance at her face. It makes no sense to wait for someone to captivate me.   
  
 _I want to spend the rest of my life with you_ \-- I can already imagine how unromantic I could make that sound.   
  
My cynicism, you could say, is the precaution that backfired. I was so afraid of being robbed of a heart I can't even acknowledge, that when it happened, I was terribly aware of every, precious, moment.   
  
Thirteen is unlucky for some. I only knocked on the door for some sugar.   
  
It was a hot day, one of the hottest I'd ever lived through, but I was looking for sugar.  
  
Something sweeter opened the door.  
  
I stayed in number nineteen, but the nearer doors didn't catch my attention the way thirteen did. No different to the others in exterior, but somehow I had the hunch that the occupant of that room would have sugar, some to spare; some to share.   
  
I will never regret knocking on that door.   
  
The robust punch of cigarette smoke came as a surprise. I remember wanting to both step back and step in.  
  
"Hello?" he had said. I had lost all sense of my vocabulary. His mouth was still holding its shape from the last sound it had made, but slowly it relaxed, pursed, thinned, and allowed me to find myself again.   
  
Wanting to look at a man so much was a novel desire that astounded me. People have eyes, people have hair and mouths and hands that clasp the doors and shoulders that jut.   
  
On Charles Xavier everything was different.   
  
I couldn't pinpoint lust, I still can't, but I believe I was holding my breath for a very long time.  
  
That was how we met. I had unexpelled air in my lungs that I couldn't release. I had one foot forward, and undignified eyes that wouldn't avert.   
  
It happened as unwisely as I feared.  
  
"Can I help you?" he had asked. His accent was insignificant, but I'm afraid at the time, my thoughts differed.   
  
My voice was a rasp. I'm sure he'd thought I was mute, and I had supplied that conjecture by silently regarding the Victorian doorknob for many moments.  
  
"Sugar. I just need some sugar," I'd cleared my throat awkwardly and felt myself burn, as though the smoke was actually exuding from my person. "Would you be kind enough to lend me some?"  
  
His expression changed. If I could describe it, I'd say he suddenly looked like the kind of man who had far too much sugar and was looking to get rid of bucket loads.   
  
Maybe he stepped to the side and let me in because I was one of the few residents who spoke fluent English. I wasn't expecting access into his rooms, I'd thought he'd restrict me to the hallway and stock my bowl himself.   
  
I'd entered hazily. It was far too hot in his rooms. I had two unused fans in my room I couldn't stop thinking about.   
  
Then my eyes found him again; when I spun around to watch him close the door, I saw he was scantily clad.   
  
I'm sure I gasped. I still blush at the thought.   
  
His light grey briefs, that was all he wore, clung to him so obscenely, that I had to look away. I'd focused my gaze on the cluster of papers and books on the desk nearby.   
  
No man, surely no man had the right to look like that.

As much as my eyes had darted around the room, I can still only recall the shape of calves and the snugness of cotton and the broad land of his back.   
  
He'd led me to his small kitchenette. He'd been talking, but I cannot remember anything but the waves of heat that had been affecting me and the sweat that beaded above my eyebrow.  
  
Whatever his question was, I remember telling him that I was going to use the sugar for coffee, which he then proceeded to make me.   
  
"It's boiling in this room," I had cleverly pointed out. Charles, whose name I did not know yet, smiled at me guiltily.  
  
"Sorry about that. I don't have a fan."  
  
"I do," I'd blurted, feeling suddenly idiotic. "I mean -- I have a spare one."  
  
"Oh, I couldn't possibly ask you--"  
  
"It's no problem," I'd interrupted, my fingers unwrapping from around the handle of the mug he'd handed me. He gaped at me like he'd never thought neighbours had the capacity to show a little kindness in return. My bowl was now full to the brim with sugar, but I'd left it there pointedly, as assurance that I'd return.   
  
I bolted down the hallway, unlocked the door, and bolted again. All the while my mind was suffering from the loss of Charles. He was so beautiful I felt dizzy, like he was a heady cologne that smelt like a high and lingered behind constantly. How long since I had met him, ten minutes? I was bewitched. I paused in my room with an electric fan in my arms and took that moment to wonder why I was going to go back to the man who'd made me so uncomfortable with his appearance.   
  
I followed the scent. I don’t regret that either.  
  
He'd looked positively thrilled. I couldn't believe how lovely it felt.   
  
"Tell me your name," I said, staring at the tattoo the man had on his lower back. It was of a bullet. He doubled over to pluck the fan plug into the switch. I was stood behind, my mind warring over what I wanted more: to inquire about the tattoo, or trace it with my hot fingertips.   
  
"Charles." He straightened, put his hands on his naked waist, and spun around to face me. "Charles Xavier." He gave me a smile; I placed my eyes on it and absorbed it and missed the hand that stayed outstretched between us.   
  
My polo shirt was sticking to my body. I intended to go back to my room, then, peel off my shirt, shower again, and forget about Charles Xavier. Charles Xavier was supposed to be forgettable; I was supposed to walk through the door and be as unaffected by him as I am by any other man.  
  
I shook his hand closely. Our palms kissed, my fingers pressed. If I had a hat, I would've tipped it.   
  
I never really found out what the tattoo meant.   
  
I was halfway to the door, sugar bowl in tow, when I heard the buzz of the fan and a gasp.   
  
I turned around and saw pages and pages of papers flying askew, some floating, some slipping off the messy desk. Charles had spread his arms over the table widely, trying to pin down the papers as they flew to the wind's accord. The window was open, and Charles had yelled.  
  
Just as I'd put the bowl back down and rushed to his aid, he'd shrieked "Give me a hand!"  
  
I'd never been so befuddled in my life. The papers were about to fly out the window, so was I expected to shut the window and catch the papers, or go and unplug the fan? I stumbled back and forth until I conceded to switch the fan off. The papers relaxed, descending downwards.   
  
He'd thought he'd saved the day, but then Charles gasped again. Some papers had left through the window.   
  
He turned to look at me with the widest eyes, his arms still spread over the desk. A knee was hitched up to save a suicidal book. So,  
  
I ran.

I dodged eight people down the hallway, skipped down the stairs like a madman, bumped into a bellboy, cursed in a dozen languages, and shot out of the building. Charles's room overlooked the front entrance, that I knew. I was sweating a pool. I darted all over the place, eyes squinting against the sun and suddenly expanding at the sight of lonely pages of stray papers.   
  
I sprinted.  
  
I clawed the papers off the hot ground and clutched them in my hands. I was overjoyed. Charles was leaning out of his window, watching me. He was grinning. I grinned back, waving the papers like a victory flag. I was too relieved.   
  
I was sticky with sweat by the time I came back to number thirteen. Charles walked over to me, took the papers, and placed his hand on my shoulder.  
  
"Thank you _ever_ so much," he said, patting me in a friendly manner. I basked in the touch. I reached out and covered his hand with mine, briefly.  
  
I mumbled back something flippant and cleared my throat. Charles asked for my name.  
  
"Erik," I'd told him, looking at the ground. "Erik Lehnsherr," I then added, just to equalise.  
  
"I'm afraid your coffee's gone cold. I could make you another?"  
  
I accepted the offer.   
   
Charles didn't have much furniture. His bed was a mattress on the ground. Only his desk had a chair, which was currently supporting a tower of thick books. I looked up at Charles with the mug in my hand, silently inquiring over where to sit. I _liked_ looking up at Charles. I didn't mind that I myself looked a bit lost.   
  
Charles grimaced a bit as he led me to the mattress. I wanted to laugh.   
  
I sat down steadily and watched Charles reconnect the fan once it was a safe distance away from the desk and faced only us. He joined me down on the mattress then, sitting with his knees pulled close to his chin.  
  
"You're here for work aren't you?"  
  
I remember being alarmed by that question. I replied with, "What makes you say that?"  
  
He looked at me and shrugged. His hair fluttered against his forehead as the breeze hit him.  
  
"I am," I eventually admitted. I looked at his curved back and wondered if he burnt or tanned or grew new freckles under the sun. My eyes roamed over him freely for a while before I had to glimpse away. I sipped the coffee quietly. "You seem like... you're about to leave soon."  
  
Charles simply nodded, watching me over his lily white knees. They didn't bare a single bruise, not one childhood scar, no accidental cuts or grazes. Like he'd never climbed a tree in his youth and wasn't keen on dirty sports.   
  
"What do you do then?" Charles asked me.   
  
"I'm a photographer," I simply said.  
  
"What do you photograph?" he smiled. I didn't know that, actually -- I could only see his eyes, his mouth being obscured by the arms on his knees. Still, his eyes gleamed, his eyebrows were curved in a perfect shape, and his voice was risen in delight.  
  
"I'm the pretentious kind," I said, finishing my coffee. "I'll photograph anything that's beautiful."  
  
Charles didn't question me further, only ogled me from over his knees. It did still make me feel like I was being asked a million things.   
  
I knew then, that I had to leave. I had looked at Charles for too long, saved him from being in danger of a heatstroke, and scuttled around the building for his items. At this rate I was utterly fond of him, and I needed to collect myself elsewhere, out of his air.   
  
I'd stood up abruptly and told him what a pleasure it was to meet him. I'd taken the bowl and raised a hand, telling him to remain seated, and I let myself out. My exit was just as quick and unexpected as I had wanted it to be. I wanted him to sit on that mattress and think of me. Wonder which number I lived in. I wanted him to want me. I wanted him to glance down at where my body still left a mark of my presence and place his hand over it and yearn.  
  
Sweat-soaked and flustered, I had spent the rest of my day and the entirety of the night thinking about him.

Then I saw him the next day. He was eating breakfast in the café.   
  
He was fully clothed, of course. He wore a button down and slacks. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. I stopped and pushed down my sunglasses and wondered if I should greet him. But I had work to attend to, and I couldn't be late.  
  
It was on my way back that our chance meeting granted me the sight of him. The sight of his hips, as he swayed them in his ascend up the stairwell. I saw him, my heart quivered, and my pace sped up to conquer the steps between us.   
  
He had a cigarette between his lips, which almost fell as he smiled.   
  
"Hello, Erik. Fancy meeting you again."  
  
We walked up the steps in perfect synch; I was pretending that I wasn't out of breath. I gained an invitation to his room, and still, I do not regret accepting.  
  
I had done good work today. I was carrying my Highlander roll film, and when Charles offered to see my portfolio, I let him.  
  
Wine warmed our throats and photographs of waterfalls cooled our thoughts as we sat on his mattress, the hairs on my arm elongating too, to get as close to Charles as I could be.   
  
Every time he guessed the name of the landscapes, he would be continents too far off, but I knew it was pretence. With each word he'd glance at my face, and I always gave him something to look at: the roll of my eyes, a smirk or a smile, a long glimpse of the heat in my gaze.  
  
He asked to keep a polaroid image of a prettily wilted flower and I obliged. As I handed it to him, my fingers crept up to his wrist, and I brought his hand up to my mouth. My lips pressed against the vein under his skin, the tip of my nose met the bone of his wrist, and my chin sat above his knuckles. It was the longest kiss my lips have ever known.  
  
I regret leaving, that I cannot deny.   
  
The next morning I spent a substantial amount of time perfecting the tilt of my hat. I now easily recall my petty conflict every time I see the mirror. Right or left? South-west or north-east? Does Charles try this hard?  
  
I saw him not even once that day. Not in the lobby, not in the café, and not in the stairwells. In my foggy desperation, I approached the woman at the front desk and inquired over whether she'd seen a beautiful man leave the building today. She looked as lost as I felt.  
  
Unknowing of the way it affected me, the door to his room stood there between us, and I stared at the golden plaque impatiently.   
  
I didn't understand what I'd done that meant I was unworthy of another chance meeting with him.  
  
At one in the morning, while I was still fleeting in and out of sleep, Charles knocked on my door thrice. If I had known he was causing the disturbance, I would've raced to him.  
  
I didn't attend the door.  
  
Six hours later, I was woken by the same noise, but distant and muffled. Someone was knocking again, but not to my door. I was annoyed nonetheless, and it took me great effort and the drive of my irritation to reach the door.

I found Charles. His back was to me. The elderly gentleman of room sixteen was conversing with him -- him rather than me, toothless and hunched -- and I could hear the old man's French accent and Charles's slow enunciation.  
  
"Have you tried number nineteen?"  
  
"Oui, but nobody is answering."  
  
The older man then looked my way, in the direction of over Charles's shoulder.  
  
"Maybe you should try again."  
  
Charles turned around to follow the line of his sight, and as he spun around to face me, he was beaming.  
  
"Erik!" he shouted my name.  
  
I took him inside.  
  
He told me he had a busy, early day yesterday and he finished only until after midnight. I felt terrible as I recalled the rhythm of three knocks. He told me he tried every door in the hallway. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen--  
  
I cornered him. I felt myself falling in love. Love and fragrance can never be hidden, they say, and I could finally understand. I tried not to startle him as I took his hand in mine and kissed every small pink knuckle. He didn't startle, not once. I told him I was sorry, and he told me not to be, because that would mean he'd have to forgive me.  
  
"And Erik, I save my forgiveness for much worse."  
  
We played chess that morning. He insisted on the bed, and I wanted to make a joke, oh how I wanted to resort to humour, but I couldn't.  
  
He chose white and I was black. I gave him a pawn; it was there, diagonal to his, ready for taking. Then it was my bishop, I openly left it there to be captured. My rook stood on the square his knight could reach, my queen I left unprotected.  
  
Charles won, in the end, but only by the victory of procuring my queen.  
  
"Why did you do that?" he asked me softly.  
  
"Why didn't you take all the pieces of mine I was offering? Why just my queen?"  
  
"Why take all of your invaluable pieces when I could simply take your one most precious asset?"  
  
We were both the kind to answer questions with questions, it was unsurprising. This thought just occurred to me now; at the time my mind was elsewhere.  
  
We both had to go to work, but Charles promised me he'd be on this bed again tonight.

Another heat wave burned me that day. Work was unstimulating and dull, I spent more time wiping sweat than anything else.  
  
I didn't want Charles to bruise his knuckles ever again, I never wanted to hear him create the sound of summoning me, I wanted to always be there, so as to never give him the pain of waiting. He shouldn't have to wait for someone always waiting for him. I left my door wide open.  
  
At seven he was sauntering in.  
  
"It's not that hot anymore," he said, closing the door behind him.  
  
"I know."  
  
I poured him wine liberally. He said,  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, hand me the bottle."  
  
I chuckled and obliged. We sat on the bed and played cards that night. He looked over at me from above his hand, each card spread out evenly in confidence. I blinked at his blue eyes, he blinked at me with his. I lost, miserably, and I didn't even try to.  
  
Unwise. Just as unwise as I had feared.  
  
I showed off how I could say "thank you" in fourteen languages. Once, I said "I love you", but he didn't notice. It's safe to say Farsi really isn't his forte. I was inexplicably relieved when he didn't bat a lash at the words that slipped from my lips.  
  
He rose to put the chess set away after a mellow game, and I couldn't resist: I reached into my bag and took out my camera. I snapped him on his way to the cupboard, on his way back to me, as he came forward with an obstructing hand stretched out.  
  
"Go stand next to the window," I ordered him, and he reluctantly went, flicking back imaginary hair. He leaned against the sill, suddenly captivated by the sunset view. I took a picture and set it down when it rolled out. I took another as he pointed to a firefly, then again when he sipped from the bottle of wine. "I like your boots," I said, and Charles pulled up his jeans and allowed me to take a picture. "You can smoke, it looks artsy." He pulled one out and lit it, plumes of grey smoke escaping his wine-wet lips. "Actually, if you drink from the bottle, I’ll have proof that the tab should be on you."  
  
"Very funny," he tilted his head, smirk sardonic.  
  
I showed him my favourite book and he flicked through it in interest. I seized the moment he grimaced, the moment he chimed in with his opinion, the moment he covered his face with the book and blushed.  
  
He sat on the bed next to me and I told him I liked the tattoo on his back. He slowly began to unbutton his shirt. It slipped off his shoulders without a sound; it seemed as though gravity had slowed down too, because the shirt would simply not fall down.  
  
When it did, I quickly put the camera before my face and took the picture of him lying down on his front, looking at me from over his shoulder. The tattoo didn't even fit into the picture.

I raked my eyes down him, removing the shirt from the frame of my shot. When the camera had reached his lower back, I noticed only half the bullet was in view. I told him, and he shifted his slacks down without hesitating. I must not have looked pleased, because then he was unzipping them and tugging them all the way down his legs. I could now see the entire bullet and more.  
  
My focus on my photography waned, every other polaroid was now blurred, showed an indecipherable body part, or simply failed to develop, because I happened to miss the button. Charles reached behind himself and ran his fingers over the bullet tattoo engraved on his body and my eyes followed, doting eyes on doting fingers. My pupils mirrored the patterns he traced.  
  
My eyes adored him, and it was the strangest instance; nobody prepared me to love a man, but love was inherently familiar to all. I was essentially lost where I belong.  
  
At the time, I saw it as just another thing I was _capable_ of.  
  
My camera fell with his clothes. I tugged him forward and up by his wandering hand and held him close against my chest. His torso twisted to face me, as though I was his sun, and I became it, emanating my heat and pinning him with the fire of my presence.  
  
In the space between my fingers he could fit two, and I kissed where we joined. I kissed up, his hand was now reminiscent of a third meeting’s familiarity, and I followed the path of a vein. I laced kisses up his forearm, the thin skin in the middle of his arm, and then his bicep. I reached his shoulder, my kisses grew louder and damper, and then I was up his neck, drawing out a gasp.  
  
I could hear him swallow; his throat was tight. I pressed a deep kiss on his jaw and he shuddered. I kissed him there again and again, and in my trance I almost missed the words whispered into the thick air,  
  
“You should at least let me take you out first.”  
  
I laughed, then considered it, because I had never been so pleased by such ordinary words. A man was offering to dine me, he had deemed it a prelude to a romantic, sexual affair, and I discovered in that moment, what I have been missing all these years. I didn’t feel like a lady being courted, I felt like even more of a man. A man who could for once, indulge, have an outrageous affinity for someone he had only met a few days ago, but had carelessly built a connection with – even knowing that it could never end with resolute marital vows.  
  
“Anything you want,” I had breathlessly offered. I felt chills lance through me at the thought—I was implying my consent to being at his mercy, and I wasn’t terrified. I was thrilled.  
  
He brought his head down to look at me, but I was reluctant to peel my face away from where it was pressed against his neck. I sought after the warmth and scent and skin that was there, I wanted him to feel my mouth moving into kisses, I wanted him to be tickled by the blinking lashes of my eyes, I wanted him to know that I was transfixed, entirely, irrevocably.  
  
“Kiss me,” he said, soft enough that I could hear his desperation, his anxiety, his worry. His desire.  
  
Under that command, I could easily extract myself from where I clung to him. I fixed my eyes on his lips; I read them as they spoke. I pulled him nearer by our interlocked hands and breathed over him. His chest rose and fell, his eyes were neatly shut, but he was insistently biting at his lips as though they itched, head lolling onto my shoulder. “Kiss me, please, _kiss_ me…”

I wanted to please him; I wanted this to be right. I wanted to make love to him with infectious passion until he begged me to stay. So that I wouldn’t have to.  
  
I trailed my fingers down his spine, felt the texture of his skin change where he was inked. Reverently, my fingertips grazed the outline of his tattoo, then dipped to where the curve of his backside began. He gasped, mouth opening, and I moved forward for his lips.  
  
His mouth was wet and hot with the aftertaste of cigarette smoke. My tongue thickened and grew heavier inside him, its point protruding for the taste of him. He went inert in my arms, my finger still dipping in and out if his crease, teasing.  
  
The movement of my lips has never been so _soft_ , I realised. I kissed him like he was about to slip from me like sand, I kissed him like I was famished for the lick of his tongue, the push of his lips, the heat of his breath.  
  
We broke hands and his own flew to my shoulder as I placed mine on his thigh, skimming up and down until I had slipped under the hem of his briefs. He bit my lip savagely, groaning, and in answer I took my hand out to place it over his mouth. I could taste blood even though nothing was cut, it mingled with the wine and smoke and tasted like this evening: intoxicating.  
  
I slotted my middle finger between his parted lips and crooked it until his tongue wetted the tip, then rolled around it to smother it in saliva to the knuckle. I smirked and dragged a droplet over his bottom lip before placing the index finger in my own hot mouth, dampening it quickly with hollowed cheeks. Charles watched me and I watched him, like we were showpieces for each other.  
  
The thoughts in my mind were vulgar; the moon would hide behind the clouds in shame if I were to utter them aloud. But nothing was stopping me from living them out, so I kissed the man again, slowly, as my wet hand descended to his backside. My fingers spread apart the waistband of his briefs from his skin and dipped low to trace the sensitive skin between his cheeks. I brushed past his pucker, both our faces burning with heat and a bright red blush. He curved his arse out for me more, our mouths now unmoving against each other, and allowed me more access. The swell of his arse became more prominent, because now he was arching up to my fingers, his face pressed against my neck this time. Slowly he leant, until I was letting him bend forward onto my lap. His stomach was pressed over my thighs and my wrist relaxed as it soothingly caressed the skin surrounding his entrance.  
  
My fingers lost their wetness, and I removed them from his briefs, bringing them up to my mouth again to lick. Charles took my hand from me and licked too, coating them with more moist or licking away mine—it was hard to tell, but all the same my fingers were wet again as they slipped down to his crease . I dove between his flesh, my finger jutting into his hole, but his muscles wrapped around me tightly. I was barely an inch in and he was yelling throatily – it was hard for me to tell if he was protesting or pleased. All the same, I eased my finger out and brushed my other hand over his head, which hung over my legs. He was bent obscenely, I realized, not uncomfortably, but certainly like an overgrown child awaiting punishment. He clutched my knee as he hauled himself up. His waist had been pressed against my erect cock, and bereft of the warmth, I twitched in my trousers.  
  
Charles was now up on his feet, watching me as I watched him remove his briefs. He said, “Do you have something we can use?” but I didn’t hear, so he repeated himself.  
  
I didn’t know what my body was doing as it headed for the bathroom. I took a great deal of time contemplating products, my mind was still overwhelmed with the image of Charles’s nudity. I saw a bottle of hand cream and reached for it. It made no sense; I would be using it on my hand but then—not exactly. This was all so unfamiliar – me leaping out of my restrains and inhibitions. As a matter of fact, it was exhilarating.

I wasted no time in smothering the cream all over my fingers. They were still slightly sore from when both myself and Charles had sucked and lapped them, but the cool cream soothed.  
  
I came back to the bed to find Charles stood waiting. I made a move to undo my trousers, but Charles did them for me. I was fearing his aid, because I thought I could come from just the ghost touch of his fingers alone. When my trousers were off, he went for my shirt. He stepped closer to me as he unbuttoned, and I pulled my boxers down to free my erection. He took another step towards me when I was exposed, and then I could feel his tip rubbing against mine. He was uncut, unlike me, and I curiously extended a hand to thumb at the extra layer of skin. He looked at me from under his lashes, then broke into a smile. He was slow as though he’d never undone buttons before. I fingered his foreskin more, pushing it forward to feel the moisture underneath. He gasped and almost fell into my arms, then. I held him tightly against my chest, letting his hands slowly remove the shirt from down my arms. It fell to the floor and I sighed, pulling him nearer, my cock pulsing against his.  
  
The lotion on my hand was drying, so I lowered my arm until I was cupping his arse. He lifted his head off of my shoulder and rocked his hips, clinging to my biceps. From the front, he rubbed against me; from the back, he moved the globe of his rear into my spread hand. It was insane—I wanted him closer yet. I hefted him up with both my hands grabbing his arse. He lifted his legs and each one wrapped around my hips, crossing over at the ankles, and I adjusted him in my arms until my mouth was level with his. He buried his hands in my hair, trusting me to keep him up.  
  
“Hold on tight,” I told him, giving his arse a pointed squeeze. I would take great satisfaction in knowing my fingers left a mark. He gave a quick nod, unsteadily moving forward to peck my lips. My middle finger snaked into his hole, he was already parted open for me from the way he clenched his legs around my hips, and I sunk the finger in. He hissed all over my mouth. He breathed my name, licked his lips, then nodded again. I dipped in more, keeping my finger still. My cock had been straining upwards and dripping onto the scattered photographs by our feet. Charles let out a moan that made my heart stutter. A squelching sound was audible in my room. We listened with our chests pressed together, hearts neighboring.  
  
It was getting difficult to burrow further with my finger, more so to stand with the weight of my swollen cock—Charles’s soft body notwithstanding—so I carried us both to the bed. I let him down with utmost care, keeping my finger inside him the whole time. He was cautious not to lay on my hand, raising his hips into the air and leaving my wrist space. Charles was more relaxed this way, his tightness eventually giving way. I twisted my hand so the heel of my hand could press against his balls. He responded with a loud moan, which slowly devolved into sobs. Tears streaked his cheeks and I lifted my other hand to wipe them. For all his cries and the feel of my thick finger breeching his cleft, he looked radiant. I lowered my head to kiss him all over, palming his balls again. I kneeled closer to him, lifting his leg high up on my shoulder. I dug my face into the flesh of his thigh and breathed in, concentrating on opening up my lover, as opposed to reaching an early climax.  
  
I had now stretched him wide enough for two fingers. The assault of one had cast him a dark shade of pink. I wanted to soothe him with my lips. I wanted to stretch him wide enough for my entire hand. I wanted to enter him fully with my cock and press my hand down on his stomach, hard, so he could feel the complete length of my arousal deep inside him.

I was sweating, and so was he. His arms had been flung over his eyes and I saw veins under the skin, enticing and wiry. His mouth hung open as he breathlessly cursed – I watched cautiously as both my index and middle finger now widened him up, making him loose for me. We both had plenty of control, I thought, considering how neither of us had let go yet. I was a second away from coming all over Charles’s thighs and stomach, but I held on with gritted teeth as I prepared Charles for my girth.  
  
I kept my thumb inside, spreading him, as I slid the head of my cock into his hole. Charles arched off the bed and I felt the urge to grabble for my camera and capture the image permanently, but it felt too good to move. For moments I just pulsed inside him, my cock sticky and wet, as I waited for Charles to relax. He drew scars along my back and I relished the pain. My head turned to smother my mouth against his thigh, and this time I drew his tender skin between my teeth and clenched. Charles screamed and dug his nails into my back again, clawing at the scars he’d already created. I pushed myself in deeper and it silenced us both.  
  
Charles’s veins were now divulging from his neck as he cried raggedly, holding onto me for purchase and rocking backwards. My hand soothed him with thumb strokes over his cheeks and collarbones and nipples. Everything—he was sensitive to everything, any touch anywhere. I grinded down and brought my hand down to wrap around his cock. I squeezed tightly, my wrist twisting to fist him in every direction my cloudy mind could think of. I resorted to pumping him up and down, then, holding his shaft and creating friction within my clutch. Charles was losing his breath, trying to warn me that he was going to come through the short pants and gasps for air. I nodded, relieved because now I could come undone as well.  
  
We did so almost simultaneously, though my hips gyrated forward to ride out the aftershocks. I still cannot fathom the bliss, those moments of utter relief and ecstasy that had tolled through me bodily. It was an amplification of every moment of intercourse I’ve had in the past. I was sexually compatible with a man, a beautiful young man, and it was somehow what I never knew I needed. This, this thrilling pleasure that had the power to make me crumble like dust: I knew I would obsess over this for days. Weeks. Months, maybe.  
  
Charles’s come painted my waist. I swirled my finger through it. I was on my back next to Charles, who had rolled onto his stomach once he’d caught his breath and I had pulled out. He looked beat, his thighs and arse marked with me, his hair damp with sweat like the rest of him, his eyes hooded with lids. I stroked his cheek with my cleaner hand, rubbing my thumb along his bottom lip. Lazily, he nipped.  
  
I loved him. I loved this man. I wanted to give him pleasure for the rest of my life. I indeed didn’t know his second name or the day he was born, but I knew the way he pulsated in my hand and the way he sweetly dragged his lips over mine—and no, those weren’t words that could be forgotten. Those were moments that I would remember him by.  
  
Those were the last moments I would remember him by. 

 

Or so I thought.

  
  
Number thirteen was abandoned in the morning, its key downstairs.  
  
Yet an electric fan was left for me. I glared at the receptionist as she pushed it in my direction. I would've wanted him to keep it, but then I knew I would've scrutinised him for doing so.  
  
There was a note wedged inside. I heaved a sigh and pretended I wasn't running out of breath from just standing. Under an address to another hotel, I read:  
  
 _FOR WHEN YOU RUN OUT OF SUGAR AGAIN._

_P.S.: I LOOKED UP EVERY THANK YOU. THIRTEEN OF THEM WERE RIGHT._

_P.P.S.: I LOVE YOU TOO._

 


End file.
